Poetry Friday, The Galilee Hitch-Hiker, Part 9

My Insect Funeral

When I was a child
I had a graveyard
where I buried insects
and dead birds under
a rose tree.
I would bury the insects
in tin foil and match boxes.
I would bury the birds
in pieces of red cloth.
It was all very sad
and I would cry
as I scooped the dirt
into their small graves
with a spoon.
Baudelaire would come
and join in
my insect funerals,
saying little prayers
the size of
dead birds.

San Francisco
February 1958

I am one day late for poetry Friday again, but here it is--the final part of "The Galilee Hitchhiker." Ta da!

My sister and I used to dig bird graves with spoons and bury birds and have bird funerals and pray little prayers, probably exactly the size of those little dead birds. Our childhood cat, the great bird assassin, Red Baron, would fret and strut nearby during the proceedings, kept at bay solely by the force of little girl glares.

It's been a looooong week. My laptop has returned from the land of repairs. It reportedly has a new logic board (brain?) and seems to be just fine (but does it remember me?). I am lazy and sleepy and not especially interested in straying far from my current position--in bed, laptop in front of me, warm dozing chihuahua in my lap. Trouble is I have 14 billion papers to grade and a few million errands to run and chalupy to let run and play in the park before the next snows arrive. Sigh.

Coffee. More coffee. Some lazy blog reading for a half and hour or so. Some internet window lusting after a few things that I definitely cannot buy until I get my paycheck and should not buy even then. Some more coffee. Then I shall motivate beyond the bed for the day. Happy Saturday, everyone!